


Always A Place

by artematthew



Category: Fate/Zero
Genre: Afterlife, Gen, dumb boys and dumb feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 09:18:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2104146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artematthew/pseuds/artematthew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the end of everything, Waver Velvet walks on warm sands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always A Place

**Author's Note:**

> I have lots of feelings about ancient heroes okay.

Waver Velvet cannot understand where his feet are taking him.

Years and years, decades of tossing and turning, reliving the moments of that war and the next, trying to keep his damn mind from splitting in two - because even though he's a magus and sees impossible things and shoves his face into them, he's still a human being of logic and reason without any real clue of what lies beyond… well. Everything. It's only when the darkness lifts that he can tell that he's stepping onto sand.

Blessed sand, killing him inside with the heat given his water affinity, but he knows this sand and he knows its master and he knows in his heart what lies ahead. He breaks out into a run, his stuffy attire melting away into proper warrior robes. His mind can barely believe it - _him_? In the Reality Marble? Wasn't everyone here a Heroic Spirit? And how the hell did he get that kind of classification? Then again, destroying a magical wish-granting device was pretty impressive, along with not getting himself killed over the course of two wars. He'd also managed to not strangle a single student despite their best efforts to the contrary, which if not Heroic Spirit material deserved some kind of goddamn medal.

It's a man with tanned skin and piercing blue eyes who rides out to him first, and it makes his heart leap into his throat before he realizes that no, it's not Rider, but it's someone who looks very much like him. A moment of searching through his memory of the dozens of books he'd devoured after the war gives him the identity of the man before him, though it's not fast enough to keep the man from pointing a sword at him.

"Who are you, who approaches the camp of the king?" Hephaestion's voice is higher than Alexander's (Iskander? He could never figure out which spelling was more preferred) but still full of the same confidence. Waver balls his hands up into fists and swallows the first remark that comes to mind (' _a goddamn moron, that's who_ ') and straightens his back. The robes help, though it's still weird to feel the rougher material against his skin.

"Waver Velvet. Hopefully he'll know who I am, because if not I think I'm going to figure out if dead people can die without being summoned." He holds his hands up, not really eager to get run through. The warrior scowls, and then breaks out into a grin and a laugh, sheathing his sword.

"We've waited a long time for you." Puzzled, Waver's brow furrows, and the soldier continues. "Bound to the Throne of Heroes or not, memories or not, you have always been a part of this army. All of those who follow him - past, present, or future - find their way here."

The mage gapes a bit before shutting his mouth and brushing off his robes. "Then let's go. I…"

"… Want to see him. We all do. But climb up here with me and I'll take you to him." Hephaestion pats the flank of his charger as Waver attempts to haul himself up. It's easier than he expected - but he's a Heroic Spirit now, so it makes sense. Still, he clings a little - he is definitely not a Rider and definitely not in possession of any kind of decent riding skill, so it's nerves more than ability that keeps him on the horse. As they reach the borders of the camp though, he slides off and starts walking. The sand should be making him stumble, be thwarting every step - but it's natural to him, like he'd grown up on the desert instead of streets of concrete and cobblestone.

He breaks into a run as he sees the figure step out of his tent, and slams into him, laughing and crying and squeezing him tightly, babbling nonsense like he's ten instead of decades older. His king lets him get it all out, brushes his hair and rubs his back, before kneeling to meet his gaze.

"I knew you'd show up, boy! Of course we've got room for you - and wine besides! Your place here has been waiting. _We've_ been waiting." The lines around his eyes crinkle in amusement as Waver wipes his face, trying not to blind himself with sand, and nods.

"… Thank you, my king."

"You're welcome, my friend. Always."


End file.
